


Daddy Don't Go

by SailorLestrade



Category: The Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1765486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorLestrade/pseuds/SailorLestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian's POV. He remembers his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy Don't Go

There are events in our lives we will remember forever. Of course, the events in my life I can never forget. I guess it comes with the territory of who I am. I’m the son of the Walrus, the Nowhere Man, the Loser, the great and powerful John Lennon. And for the past fifty years, I’ve been trying to get past it. But sadly, I can’t. Without his name, I’d be nobody. And I know that. But it doesn’t mean that he didn’t actually have an effect on my life. He made me the man I am today. I don’t know if I should thank him or hate him for it.

I was eight the day it all began. I was used to dad being gone for months at a time. Recently, he had been staying home more, getting high with Uncle George and Aunt Pattie a lot. Mom wasn’t up for it as much as before and Uncle Paul was too busy with an American girl, and of course, as you all know, Uncle Ringo was too stoned to remember the presentation by the queen, let alone how to drive a car properly. But that day wasn’t one of those days. That day was sunny.

I was playing with my toy cars in the yard when the front door opened and dad walked out toting large bags of clothes and guitars. I thought he was going for a slumber party and, of course, I wanted to go too. I set down my cars and walked over to him as he walked towards the garage that housed his precious yellow car.

“Daddy, where are you going?” I asked. He looked down at me. His eyes were red, bloodshot, but not like they were when he was high on LSD or anything. These were full of remorse and regret. Like he was more mad at himself then anything.

“I...I’m moving out Jules.” Dad said, his voice wavering.

“Why?” I asked. He sighed and put his bags down. He knelt so he was looking me in the eyes.

“Sometimes, mummies and daddies fall out of love with each other. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” He said. It was the sweetest thing he had ever said to me, but sadly, I didn’t care about sweet at the time. I wanted answers.

“Can I go with you?” I asked him. Dad shook his head no.

“Sorry Jules. But soon.” He grabbed his bags and headed to his car. I chased him and grabbed onto his leg, crying.

“Daddy don’t go!” I cried. Dad gently pried me off his leg and walked to his car. He got in and drove off, driving by our big gate to keep people out. I ran to it and cried. “Daddy come home!” I screamed. Mom came out later and picked me up. But I wanted dad. He had missed most of my life already, I didn’t want him to miss anymore.

For the next few years, I lived with mom and saw dad whenever he could schedule it. With the Beatles fighting, the amount of time was less and less. He was living with Yoko Ono and I hated her. I truly couldn’t stand her. I thought she was a vile woman out to ruin my life. She wanted me to call her mom and to call her daughter my sister. But I wouldn’t. There was no way I was going to do that. I already had a mom.

Dad and Uncle Paul started yelling more. Aunt Pattie wasn’t as friendly anymore and Aunt Maureen started to scare me. Everyone and everything was changing but I wasn’t. The world was moving from the black and white images I was born into to psychedelic euphoria that dad was drinking in his morning tea. I hid in the shadows as these strange monsters appeared out of the footprints of people who used to be family.

When Uncle Brian died, that’s what snapped dad’s mind in two. He left with Yoko for months. He wrote letters to me and mom, but mom didn’t care what he had to say for the longest time. She was trying to move on, but he was bringing up the past. When he came home, back to London, he was off again for New York. He cut his hair and he got angry, angrier then he had ever been back during the Beatles. It was almost scary, him singing about karma and killing while promoting peace and love. The dad I had barely known for all those years was finally gone. All those black and white figures from Sullivan were gone.

As the 70‘s brought in new fashions and culture, I fought the teenage years being the bastard child of a former Beatle. High school was hard. I didn’t care about grades or anything. I wanted to separate myself from the man who had a hand in creating me. But dad wanted to make a amends. As the decade wore on, he became mellow. The drugs were gone, well, at least the heavy ones were. As he reached out for me, I decided to be the opposite of him and reach back. My biological grandfather had left him for his whole life, at least that’s what he told me. But I decided I wasn’t giving him the chance. I was fighting back. So I traveled to New York several times to visit him.

By ‘76, I had a little half-brother who made me smile no matter what. At two, he was the prince of the Dakota. I had never really created a relationship with Yoko at that time. She had offered me to live with them. She told mom she’d pay for everything. But mom and me both disagreed with her and I went back to England about a week later. But dad and me kept in touch. He helped me with my music and, well, I helped him with his two. It was the first time in years we had actually gotten along with each other.

That December of 1980 was traumatic. At 17, I felt I was on top of the world. I had just been working with Uncle Paul a bit on making an album. But that day, I was napping outside instead of working. Mom came out of the house, tears streaming down her face. She woke me.

“Mom?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” She looked so lost.

“J-John...” She simply said.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting up from my hammock. Mom just cried.

“He...he’s been murdered.” She said. My world froze. He was really, really gone then. And it was so painful.

For the next few years, I grew distant. I worked on my music. I went to New York more and more. I started drinking. I was just so angry. Zak, stupid Zak, tried to help, but he didn’t understand how I felt yet. His mom was still living. The McCartney girls didn’t understand and Dhani was too young and Uncle George still had a good 21 years left. I felt so bad for Sean. We were facing this together and it was hurting us both.

In the 90‘s, Yoko bought a piece of land in Central Park and created a quiet memorial called Strawberry Fields. On opening day, thousands of Beatles fans, young and old, stormed the area and held vigil, playing guitar and singing softly, placing candles and mementos on the Imagine slab. I thought it was sweet.

That night, as the crowds departed, I walked to the memorial and laid a flower on it. I crouched there and just stared at it.

“Daddy, please come home.” I whispered. I finally cried over my dad then, for the first time in years, my dad actually made me cry.

The End


End file.
